Have you seen it? Covered in a massive tattoo it is. I couldn't believe it, what's she had that done for? So she can have a shag in the bushes without being spotted? And what's it going to look like 30 years from now? Like a double page spread out of an old copy of Gardener's World magazine that's been left on a park bench in the rain before a tramp used it to wipe his arse on, that's what. Woof.

Who's there? The Grammar Police. Get to flying fuck you shower of twats. I made that one up meself you know? There was fuck all else to do in Stalag forty bastard five was there? They've been away on yet another fucking holiday leaving me to near starve to bastard death down at "the health farm" as they laughingly fucking call it. Then to cap it all, I'm whisked off for a fucking hair cut the minute they get back, just to add insult to fucking injury. I could fucking spit, I really could. Still there was a nice little girlie Border Terrier in there called Rosie. She was only 2 as well. What are you looking at me like that for? Two is legal in doggie terms. Needless to say, progress has been somewhat static in terms of glider construction this past few weeks. Watching me like fucking hawks they are. Just 'cos I tried to escape a couple of times. The tight bastards. I've managed to lose me name tag down at the "health farm" though, so next ti...

I could scarcely contain my waggy excitement last night when me Dad came home with another massive parcel for yours truly from my good friends and business associates Thomas Bell, the country's leading fertiliser importers. There must be so many pig's ears in Brigg that they have to get rid of them somewhere I suppose. And I'm that dog. There's probably some sort of government subsidy available for turning surplus pig's ears into Border Terrier farts. The only problem I've got now is whether this fucking glider I'm building will actually get off the roof when it's ready. It could be more of a plunger than a glider, like those bell-ends you see on the telly going off a Southend Pier or somewhere. Some clown, dressed as a clown just for further clarification, with two pieces of brightly painted 4x2 strapped to his hat plunging straight into the water. That thing was never gonna glide any further than a tossed shite was it? He might as well have just dresse...

Well, they reckon she's had the fucker, although by the looks of her on the telly last night she's still cooking up another one in there. "He's got a right pair of lungs on him," said Prince William. He obviously doesn't take after his Mother then. Went for a walk with me Dad this morning and we went past a squashed up carton of Ribena on the pavement, so I was straight over, as you do, but despite sucking as hard as I could all I could get out of it were a few little dribbles. Which is probably exactly what the baby's gonna feel like I reckon. And now that she's had it all the papers will go on about for ages is what's it gonna be called, our future King? I fancy Prawn Madras meself, but I don't suppose they'll go for it. There'll be a George in there I reckon, and probably a Phil too in honour of his Grandad - although they may miss out the "the Greek" bit. Who gives a shit? Well me actually, a polished pooh on a plinth is n...

Never in all my born days have I seen so many ginger kids all in one place. It's like we've stumbled into some real life horror movie. They're throwing stones at the ducks. Ginger Kid Duck Stoning - The Mallards Must Die I think this movie must be called. Mick Hucknall must live in Ripon I reckon. The dirty talentless ginger twat. Spreading his ginger load all round town.

The gritters are out round here. I kid you not. Trundling round the Ripon by-pass at the weekend we were followed by one of the buggers. I assume that North Yorkshire County Council have decided that spreading the grit out very thinly in the middle of a fucking record-breaking July heatwave is an excellent cost saving measure. The lack of ice-related accidents on the roads around Ripon this month is clear proof of the success of this measure. Wankers and cock ends the lot of them. In other news, I escaped again at the weekend, twice in one day which is no mean feat around here. Sadly I was recaptured for a second time whilst AWOL on sausage patrolling duties in the vicinity of Knox Way circa 17.00 hours. The tight bastards. Route behind compost bin into No 56 now blocked by large heavy piece of decking. Twats. New plan in formation, I can't wait for my mates at Thomas Bell to come up with a Porsche 911 targa top in black with alloy wheels, although I'm sure they will. New plan...

Finished the tunnel, and made my bold bid for freedom and the bright lights of Brigg around 10.45 this morning whilst me Dad's back was turned - making himself a bacon butty - the fat bastard. Through the fence, across the pond round the back and down Knox Way, heading for the main road where I could hopefully catch the bus to Brigg. The land of pig's ears. Waited ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, no sign of bastard bus to Brigg. Town Centre, yes. Brigg, no. The fucking council are fucking bastard useless round here. If I paid any council tax I cancel the fucking standing order forthwith. I'd have thought that there should be a bus to Brigg every five minutes, at the very least. Ten fucking minutes I stood there, in this bastard heat. Panting like fuck. So by this time I was starving, obviously, having already eaten my contingency food supply the minute I got out of the tunnel. So, nipped back to Knox Way to see if there was any decent foraging to be had, a couple of sausag...